<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Planetary Mindset by clockheartedcrocodile</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26143399">The Planetary Mindset</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockheartedcrocodile/pseuds/clockheartedcrocodile'>clockheartedcrocodile</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rick and Morty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Transphobia, Other, Sexbots, Threesome - F/M/M, Trans Male Character, Trans Morty Smith, Unhealthy Relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:01:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26143399</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockheartedcrocodile/pseuds/clockheartedcrocodile</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a good time at a bad hotel and Rick's paying, broh.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rick Sanchez &amp; Morty Smith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Planetary Mindset</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic takes place in the same universe as "Teenage Dirtbag" but they are completely unrelated and you do not have to read one to read the other!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Morty cuts himself shaving in mid-December, at around half past two. It’s a small nick on the upper lip. It could be mistaken for another acne scab worried to inflammation.</p><p>He can hear the muffled sounds of Beth and Jerry’s latest shouting match through the floor. They’re arguing about whether they have one daughter or two. Morty puts his face right up against the bathroom mirror and examines himself. He leans in so close that his breath fogs the glass.</p><p>A shaving cut. A real, grown man’s shaving cut. Kinda suits him, honestly. It’s not like he isn’t used to a bloody lip.</p><p>“J-Jeezus Christ, Morty,” Rick slouches past the bathroom door, only leaning in when he sees Morty standing on his toes in front of the mirror. “I thought I taugh-<em>eurrgh-</em>t you better than that, for fuck’s sake. Did y-you try to shave dry? Did you?”</p><p>“Shut the f-fuck up, Rick,” Morty snaps, kicking the door closed in Rick’s face. He rubs his dirty fingertips under his nose and watches the blood well up.</p><p>It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s a creep. Rick won’t let him fucking forget it. He humiliates him casually and not always in public; calls him a nasty, disgusting little teenage sweat monster who can’t stop jerking it long enough to fetch his grandpa a goddamn screwdriver. He’s not wrong. Morty doesn’t exactly shower every day or change his briefs more than once or twice a week.</p><p>He’d resent Rick for it if it didn’t make him feel a little private satisfaction every now and then. <em>Oh yeah, </em>Rick said once, reaching over Morty’s shoulder to put the fucked up alien porn he’d been looking at back on the magazine rack before the space gas station attendant saw. <em>I’m reeeal proud of my piece of shit grandson.</em></p><p>Morty didn’t mind that so much. Just another little reminder that Rick didn’t give a shit what Morty called himself. Or rather, he gave just enough of a shit to shuffle the intestines of the last piece of Ricktrash who looked at him funny, but not quite enough of a shit to let Morty get away with smuggling half as many megaseeds as he was technically capable of smuggling.</p><p>The cut isn’t bleeding anymore. Morty pokes it, and the blood resumes its trickle.</p><p>He’s thinking about school tomorrow. School, where bullies pin Morty to the wall and squeeze his throat till his vision swims. School, where Frank’s knife looks oily in the glaring light of the men’s room. School, where Morty sleepwalks through classes and struggles to turn in assignments on time or at all.</p><p>It doesn’t matter if he learns the material or not. The curriculum is a joke, and besides, thinking will always be Rick’s job.</p><p>Morty figured that one out a long time ago.</p><p>Morty drops his hands to the sink and clenches both sides of it, staring at his reflection. There’s no place on earth for a guy like him, and he knows it. Out there, out in the stars, there are things he’s good at. Playing the getaway driver for Rick. Diffusing tense situations when Rick, plastered beyond all reason, gets into them. Doing whatever Rick wants.</p><p>There are things Morty wants too.</p><p>His hands tighten on the edge of the sink.</p><p>Morty wants a lot of things. Things he doesn’t like to think about, mostly. He wants to be left alone in the men’s bathroom at school. He wants a dick between his legs that’s flesh and blood instead of plush straps and silicone skin. He wants to be less of a creep.</p><p>He wants a friend. A <em>real friend,</em> so he doesn’t have to defend Rick to assholes at school who say his only friend is a drunk old man who only keeps him around because he sucks grandpa’s dick real good. And he wants his piece of shit father to teach him how to properly shave.</p><p>He won’t. Morty knows it.</p><p>Rick did, though. Morty was half convinced that he’d done it just to undermine Jerry’s authority; to work the knife in deeper and deeper until the one was well and truly amputated from the other. Rick stimmed constantly- he was lightning in a bottle, all energy and movement- but that day he’d been very still and calm, almost lazy, and he seemed to be enjoying himself as he walked Morty through the steps. It would have been a golden moment if it had been Morty’s dad. But it hadn’t been. Morty didn’t get a dad.</p><p>He got Rick.</p><p>Morty shoves the bathroom door open with his elbow and walks halfway down the stairs, leaning over the railing so he can see Rick in the living room. He’s sitting on the couch, the back of his head just visible as watches something mindless and improvisational on the cable box.</p><p>Morty walks over and flops down onto the couch next to him. He puts his feet up on the coffee table and glances at Rick. He seems to be in a good mood, smiling. Rick’s teeth are yellow, like Morty’s, but that’s from age and alcohol abuse rather than Morty’s lack of motivation to brush them. His eyes are bloodshot. His long legs are propped up on the coffee table too and there’s a half-eaten package of sugar wafers in his lap. Morty takes one, munches on it while Rick browses channels.</p><p>He notices that there are cards and chips scattered on the coffee table, and some sort of alien hard soda that glows orange and smells like sex in a candle shop. Sure, Rick plays poker at the house sometimes. The kind you can’t play on Lottocron 9. Poker isn’t common among Ricks but this one’s good at it. Morty gets the feeling that poker nights at the Smith house are less about the cards and the k-lax, and more about the audience. Rick is <em>nothing</em> without an audience.</p><p>Sometimes Morty wonders why it’s him and not Beth who has the privilege of playing that role. Why him and not a hundred other Mortys, stretching from here to infinity, all with the same voice and the same stutter and all of them with bodies that fit into the mold the universe made for them. Why him? Why <em>him?</em></p><p>“Wh-what do you want, Morty?” says Rick, when he catches Morty staring.</p><p>The timing of the question knocks the breath out of him. <em>Oh, I dunno, Rick. A selfie with the president?</em> he almost says, and something in his eyes must give away what he’s thinking because Rick rolls his eyes and offers Morty the open package.</p><p>“Nothing,” Morty says cautiously. He takes another wafer and picks at the flaky crust. “Y-you’re right, Rick. I didn’t use cream.”</p><p>“Yeah, I f-<em>eurrgh</em>-igured.”</p><p>Rick cracks the tab on another alien soda. Morty can see the faint orange glow on the aluminum before Rick knocks it back. It’s a thick drink, viscous, and it drips down Rick’s chin.</p><p>He wipes it off with the back of his wrist and looks at Morty with eyes like fission at the heart of a reactor. “Don’t want anything, huh?” he says, amused. “Shaving in the m-middle of the afternoon just for kicks, Morty? Get tired of your latest attempt at preteen gamer stache?”</p><p>“What’s that, what’s that supposed to mean, huh, Rick?” Morty snaps. “Since when do you care about wh-what I do? Or how I feel?”</p><p>“Whoa,” Rick raises his hands in mock surrender.</p><p>“I want, I want a lot of things, Rick, okay? But I don’t want anything from<em> you</em>.”</p><p>Rick’s hands lower. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Alright, Morty. Relax. Let’s just watch some fucking TV.”</p><p>“Yeah,” says Morty. He’s sweating, and he feels like he’s just lost some sort of argument. He shoves a whole sugar wafer into his mouth and chews it with vicious intent.</p><p>
  <em>Wh-what do you want, Morty?</em>
</p><p>Jesus, it’s like Rick knew right where to push. Right where to work the needle in.</p><p>“So what if I shave without cream,” Morty mutters. He stares straight ahead at where his legs and Rick’s legs are propped up on the coffee table side by side. Tiny white Converse. Rick’s scuffed and stained black shoes. “So what if I wanna be a man.”</p><p>“The hell, Morty? Wha-<em>eurrgh</em>-t do you mean, <em>want</em> to be?” Rick’s monobrow rises in surprised amusement. An odd, sloping movement of the forehead. “You <em>are</em> one.”</p><p>“That’s not, that’s not,” Morty stammers, suddenly frustrated beyond all reason. He half-heartedly kicks Rick’s leg and feels metal beneath his skin. “I just, just- y’know?”</p><p>“Okay, okay, geez,” says Rick. He takes a wet, slurping sip from his half-empty soda. “Being a man isn’t exactly doing it for you, I get it. It doesn’t live up to the h-<em>eurrgh</em>-ype.”</p><p>“What the hell, Rick?”</p><p>“I mean, I mean,” Rick throws one arm behind his head, and with the other he waves the empty can aimlessly at the screen. “Wh-what’d you think, when this whole <em>Morty</em> thing got started, did you think somebody would, I don’t know. Say something?”</p><p>“Yeah, Rick, maybe I did,” says Morty sharply. “M-maybe I <em>did </em>think that.”</p><p>Rick eyes him sidelong. “Look, M-morty. I’m not gonna pretend I g-<em>eurrgh</em>-ive a shit, because I don’t. Everything’s the, the most important shit in the world to you right now, I get it. I bet you secretly wanted some kind of, some kind of <em>party</em> didn’t you, Morty, some kind of . . . m-manhood initiation thing to m-<em>eurrgh</em>-ake up for missing out on catch with your dad and your first morning stiff, y-yeah?”</p><p>Morty’s lip is bleeding again. He wipes it off with his hand. “I don’t know,” he mutters. Then, “Maybe. I don’t know.”</p><p>“I thought you knew what you wanted.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>Rick chuckles. He lifts the remote to change the channel and Morty’s gaze catches on the thin line of cybernetic augment lights glowing just beneath the skin of Rick’s wrist. Old man skin, thin and papery and almost translucent. He looks like he’d split like a rotten apple at any moment, yet he doesn’t die. Rick just doesn’t fucking die.</p><p>Sometimes Morty thinks about locking Rick away in some dusty closet in the Cocoon Creek Retirement Home. Another forgotten old man consigned to a hospital bed, kept dormant with tubes and catheters and bedpans and lilacs. Breathing in his own fumes as he rots. Morty can’t think about that particular fantasy for too long without feeling sick. The thought of Rick locked up, waiting for someone to pull the plug, is almost obscene. It’s not like Rick to lay dormant. It’s not like Morty to let him.</p><p>And it’s not what he really wants, anyway.</p><p>
  <em>Wh-what do you want, Morty?</em>
</p><p>Rick catches him looking. “Y-you don’t, you don’t wanna fuck me, Morty,” he says, with a grin that’s not quite nasty, not quite kind. “I’m waaay out of your league.”</p><p>Morty’s stomach twists. He looks away.</p><p>
  <em>Wh-what do you want, Morty?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What do you want?</em>
</p><p><em>Not you, </em>Morty thinks<em>. I don’t want to fuck you. I want to kill you, maybe. I might.</em></p><p>“Gee, thanks,” he says out loud.</p><p>“Got some reeeal wandering eyes there, Morty.”</p><p>“I get it, Rick.”</p><p>“That’s all you think, about, isn’t it. Getting your r-<em>eurrgh</em>-ocks off.”</p><p>“Quit it, Rick!” Morty kicks Rick’s leg for real this time.</p><p>Rick laughs and moves his leg out of the way. He drops his arm around Morty’s shoulder and drinks deep from the flask in his lab coat. “Listen, Morty,” he says. “I get it. Y-you come downstairs one morning, your name’s <em>Morty</em> now, and it’s a whole big thing but, but no one seems to underst- understand just <em>how</em> big. I get it. Bet it reeeally grinds your gears, huh, Morty. Bet you reeeally wanted that big initiat<em>-eurrgh-</em>ion into manhood or whatever, even if you didn’t know it. See, when you get to my age you wise up about that kind of shit, M-morty. You’re still just some di-<em>eurgh</em>-pshit kid. So you do w-weird shit like shave in the afternoon and, and jack off to freaky alien porn, hoping that someone’ll notice, hoping that some, some asshole like your dad will say,<em> y-you’re a man now, son, </em>whatever the fuck that means in this reality.”</p><p>“I’m not stupid, Rick,” says Morty. “I, I know that Dad won’t, won’t do <em>anything</em> like that.”</p><p>There’s a quiver in his voice and he hates it; it feels like evidence, somehow. Proof that Rick knew him better than he knew himself, proof that no matter how close he played his cards, Rick was still the house, and he won every time.</p><p>“Of course he won’t,<em> Morty,</em>” snaps Rick. “Jerry still thinks you’re a girl.”</p><p>Morty stands and begins to nervously pace. He sits down again just as suddenly. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Do you have something in mind?”</p><p>Rick takes a long, slow pull from his flask before answering. “Sure,” he says. “Sure I do.”</p><p>“Y-yeah?”</p><p>“I mean,” Rick belches, continues. “I mean, it w-won’t be anything fucking, fucking <em>Jerry </em>would ever think of. And I’m gonna want in on this shit, trust me. But yeah, I got something in mind. Initiate you into manhood the old-fashioned way. Perfect for a h-<em>eurrgh</em>-orny little shit like you.”</p><p>Morty eyes Rick cautiously, sidelong. Like he’s a neutrino bomb threatening to blow, and Morty’s the one holding the pliers. “Aw geez, Rick . . .”</p><p>Another long silence. Another deep swig that smells bitterly of alcohol. “Listen, M-morty,” says Rick, tucking his flask back into his lab coat. “You’re a <em>Morty</em> now, and if you’re g-going to go out and g-get a good dick-wetting anyway, m-may as well make it a good one, am I right?”</p><p>He says this with a careless shrug, like it’s nothing to him. He says this like the mention of sex, the mere <em>thought</em> of sex, isn’t enough to make Morty twitch with eagerness.</p><p>“Y-you mean, you . . .” He stammers despite himself. “You’re gonna . . . I mean, with a, a . . . you know . . .”</p><p>“You got hang-ups about it, Morty?”</p><p>“Well, yeah, Rick . . .”</p><p>“You got a reeeal planetary mindset there, Morty,” says Rick. He turns the TV off and tosses the remote aside. “You wanna be a man with a planetary mindset?”</p><p>“Fuck no.”</p><p>“H<em>-eurrgh</em>-ell yeah, that’s my fuckin’ boy.”</p><p>Rick’s bones creak when he stands. Morty knows he must be in constant pain. He wonders what it would be like to grow old. To watch his body atrophy into that of an old man.</p><p>He’s never seen an old Morty.</p><p>The portal gun’s never far from Rick’s hand. He rolls it almost lazily in his palm, keeps his eyes on Morty all the while as the living room floods with green light. “C-c’mon Morty, I know a place. We’re g-gonna be there a while. You wanna get you’re f-fucking teenage rocks off so bad w-we might as well rub one out with some style. I’m paying,” he adds, as though Morty’s dumbstruck look is at the thought of the expense. “You’re a f-fucking man now, time to treat you like one. In you go.”</p><p>Morty swallows, wipes his nose on the back of his wrist. Stepping through portals is easy now, but no less unpleasant. The green light has a slickness to it, a kind of physical mass. The feel of it on his skin reminds him of the thick, bio-organic slime of Rick’s toxic self, or the alien brake fluid Rick had introduced him to back during his ill-fated stint as a shop teacher in Morty’s high school. <em>What is this, Whiplash?</em> Morty thinks, chuckling awkwardly as he steps through the portal. He’d said that to Rick’s face in class once, and Rick laughed. That was a long time ago, before they Cronenberged the world like every other Rick and Morty seemed to do. Their new home dimension didn’t have shop teachers in their schools.</p><p>Beyond the portal is a cramped hotel lobby. He hadn’t expected that. There are strange, ugly plants on the desk, and the grimy windows show a view of the dust rings encircling the planet. The lobby is empty, and an android sits at attention behind the desk, dressed impeccably in a sapphire blue bellboy uniform. He’s handsome. Too handsome for a place this dirty.</p><p>Morty can’t look him in the eye. Androids make him think about sexbots, and he really doesn’t want to be thinking about sexbots right now. He stares at his feet, rocking back and forth on the scuffed floor. He fiddles with a Blips and Chitz ticket in his pocket.</p><p>He watches Rick talk to the android at the front desk. He wonders if Rick can feel his stare burning holes in the back of his lab coat. Sure, he’s thought about killing him. What Morty hasn’t? But Morty’s never killed a Rick before and never met a Morty who did. Mortys who kill Ricks don’t tend to last long. Even if he wanted to- really, really wanted to- he wouldn’t know where to begin. Not that it matters anyway. Rick will die before Morty hits his thirties.</p><p>Rick is gesturing with his card, making sly jokes at the android who nods politely and processes his payment. Morty’s hand clenches on the ticket. Clenches so hard his knuckles go white.</p><p>He wouldn’t start with his Rick, no. Not him.</p><p>He’d kill some other Rick on the street. Anyone would do. Maybe the one from Miami, the one who pushed k-lax crystals and fucked his Morty like a hooker. Morty can see it when he closes his eyes; the toothpick dropping from the slack, drooling mouth, the pretty pink lab coat stained magenta with whatever greasy black blood kept Rick’s insides from stalling like a broken engine.</p><p>Morty opens his eyes again and that Rick’s gone. In his place is Rick- his Rick- leaning on the front desk and looking at him. He smells like hard spirits and electrical failure, and he’s grinning.</p><p>“You c-comin’ or what?” he says, jangling their room key in his hand. Morty’s belly twists again- there was a double meaning there, did he mean it?- and he follows him into the elevator. Waits while it rises, tinny alien pop whistling from the speakers in the walls. The door slides open and Morty walks as though in a dream, feeling his skin prickling hot, excited, as Rick slouches down the hall and unlocks their door. The room number is in a language Morty doesn’t know. The door opens and Rick ducks inside a room that smells of damp and spacedust.</p><p>Morty hesitates in the doorway before stepping through, looking around him. The room is dark, moodlit. Nicer than Morty had thought it would be. The windows have dimmer switches and look out on a broad, beautiful expanse of asteroid belt, sparkling with cobalt blue dust. Rick dims the windows down to 30%, enough for a little privacy but not quite enough to obscure the view.</p><p>Morty watches him as he does his customary sweep for bugs. He sits down on the edge of the bed. “So, uh,” he says, uncertainly. “When’s she gonna get here?”</p><p>“Not l<em>-eurrgh</em>-ong now, little buddy,” says Rick cheerfully. He strolls up, claps Morty on his shoulder and gives him a squeeze. He checks his watch with a sly smile. “Not long now.”</p><p>Morty’s heart is throbbing hard and fast in his chest. It’s not all that’s throbbing. He squirms on the edge of the bed, his teeth gritted, his mind running wild. He doesn’t know what to expect. Something <em>alien?</em> Something with tentacles, warm and wet and sucking? Something with too many teeth? <em>Eggs? </em>He wonders how Rick manages to talk him into these things.</p><p>There’s a knock at the door. Morty crosses his legs and squirms, feeling himself begin to drip. He looks down at the ground, sees that the carpet is covered in tacky, glow-in-the-dark galaxies. It reminds him of cheap video arcades from the 80’s. “Rick,” he mutters, “is this g-gonna be some hentai shit?”</p><p>“Don’t be s-stupid, Morty,” Rick rolls his eyes. His hand closes on the doorknob. “Nothing, nothing <em>that</em> fucked up, alright?”</p><p>He opens the door and she’s an <em>android, </em>beautiful and taller than Morty, and Morty feels his mouth begin to salivate unwillingly as he sees that her body could not have been designed for any other function than pleasure. Smooth, soft silicone over an ultra-lightweight metal frame. Her pelvis, chest, and throat are comprised of opaque pink jelly, glowing faintly and full of small scattered bubbles. The jelly shines stickily in the 30% lighting. Morty’s mouth is slightly open. He closes it.</p><p>Rick leans against the wall as the android crosses the room. She lays herself on the bed without preamble and stretches luxuriously until her internal fans purr to life. Rick’s grinning, smug and hungry. “R-remember that sexbot you wanted me to buy you? And you couldn’t, couldn’t bang it because you d-<em>eurrgh-</em>on’t have a dick?” He gestures to the bed. “Try th-this one on for size.”</p><p>Morty can’t tear his eyes away from the android’s body. The jelly quivers slightly as she rubs her legs together. It looks warm to the touch. He wants to work his fingers into it.</p><p>“Don’t forget,” Rick says quietly. “I’m paying. I get a piece too.”</p><p>Morty’s hands are already on his belt, scrambling to pull his pants down. They get caught around his ankles and he leaves them there. He doesn’t care if Rick sees. He’s tied himself into knots with impatience and he doesn’t <em>care</em> if Rick sees. He doesn’t care.</p><p>Rick’s paying, and Morty wants to come.</p><p>Right now, that’s all Morty cares about.</p><p>It’s Morty who mounts her first, kneeling between her spread legs and tentatively touching his flat, dickless genitals against her gooey center. It feels like warm gelatin and he flinches away, gasping audibly. Then he grinds into her again, slower, chasing the friction, and it feels good. It feels <em>very</em> good.</p><p>He doesn’t look at Rick when he hears his zipper. Keeps his eyes down, gazing in dazed admiration at the smooth, silicone lines of the android’s body, the lights beneath her skin, the sticky sheen of the gelatin. He knows Rick’s taking her mouth. He knows the exact moment when Rick slides in because he groans, long and low and filthy, and begins to fuck into her so hard that Morty can feel the vibrations on the other end.</p><p>It’s hot and sudden, and the warm slickness of her glowing pink center works on him like <em>nothing </em>else, and Morty almost <em>giggles</em> with how good it feels. He rocks into her, grinding hard and slow, like he’s grinding into a pillow after dark. It feels like flying through space at a million miles per hour. It feels like knocking out Frank in one punch. It feels like Rick calling him a disgusting young man. Young man. <em>Young man</em>. Is this what it’s like?</p><p>“H-<em>eurgh-</em>ell yeah it is,” Rick groans, and Morty wonders if he said that aloud but he doesn’t care, it feels too fucking good to care. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, shut so tight that tears sting them as he thrusts into that warm jelly-heat, and when he opens them he meets Rick’s eyes by mistake, staring at each other over the spread body of the android they’re sharing.</p><p>He sees, for a moment, his own features reflected in Rick’s face. Will he look like Rick, when he gets older? Is that the kind of old man he can expect to be? Sharing sexbots in some shady space hotel?</p><p>The android wraps her legs around him and Morty’s brain melts into static. He holds up his hand for a high-five, dazed with pleasure. “F-fuck yes, buddy!” Rick whoops, high-fiving him. Then his laugh turns into a groan, and he clutches at the bedspread, thrusting roughly into the warm throat of the android.</p><p>Morty can’t see straight. He feels like he’s going blind. The slime is warm and wet beneath him, he can feel it <em>filling </em>him. His palm slips on the mucus and he falls half across her, clinging hard, thrusting half-blindly against something that feels like a hole while Rick groans something appreciative above him, something that sounds like, <em>that’s my boy</em> . . .</p><p>Morty’s orgasm comes blinding, making him twitch and shudder as supernovas explode in the pit of his belly. A thin string of drool drips from his slack mouth as he drags himself off the android’s prone form, flopping onto the mattress. Masturbation was one thing- that was his hand and no one else, no one had to know- but <em>this.</em> He had known he could have a good fuck without a dick, he knew that. But he hadn’t <em>known.</em></p><p>“Yeah, M-Morty,” Rick croaked. His voice was hoarse, rasping with pleasure. He was still in the thick of it. “You can fuck howe-<em>eurrgh-</em>ver you want out here, no one gives a shit.”</p><p>The sound is disgusting. Wet, sloppy skin on silicone. Morty covers his mouth with his wrist, tries not to think about the Rick from the detox room, and his stinking, semi-translucent goo flesh.</p><p>Rick screws his eyes shut tight and bares his teeth in a grimace, almost more of pain than of pleasure. He fucks like he wants to fuck the universe into the ground, like he wants to fuck himself all the way inside of her, and Morty knows the exact moment he spills his load because a long, loud, ugly groan of relief escapes him, like the relief of a satisfying piss. His eyes open blearily, out of focus, and he crawls off her trembling form. The sexbot- Morty can think of her as nothing else- puts her arms behind her head as though equally satisfied. She doesn’t leave, but lies there, dormant and quietly pulsating. As though ready and willing to go again.</p><p>
  <em>Wh-what do you want, Morty?</em>
</p><p><em>This,</em> Morty thinks, rolling onto his back. He covers his eyes with his arm.<em> This. Fuck. This. I want this.</em></p><p>He watches Rick stand, put himself away. Watches him walk to the hallway door and lean out of it, making sure no one’s been eavesdropping. Keeping one eye open, always.</p><p>Morty wants Rick to leave him alone. He never wants to look at him again.</p><p>He wants to look at him every day for one hundred years.</p><p>He’s Morty’s <em>best friend.</em></p><p>Morty wants the sound of the engine beneath him, sputtering. Promising a spectacular death should the thrusters fail, ejecting him into space to be ruptured, split, and boiled. Nothing around them for light years, more nothing than there’s ever been, nothing perfected, nothing down to a science. Morty wants Rick flinging them through the stars, flying full speed from their last near-death experience, and Rick’s got one leg on the dash and his eyes bloodshot from drinking and he’s smiling and<em> Morty, Morty, Morty, you’re my best friend and we’ll never fucking die.</em></p><p>Morty’s hands on the dial, interdimensional a.m. radio. Stars flying by overhead, a kaleidoscope of nebulas, a million, billion light years away yet he could swear he feels their glow staining his face. His eyes on Rick’s head as it bobs and his hand as it taps the steering wheel and the rise and fall of his all-too-human diaphragm as Morty thinks, <em>you’re my best friend, you’re my best friend and you’re right, we’ll never fucking die.</em></p><p>Morty watches Rick’s back as he stands in the hotel doorway. Dazed, daydreaming. Post-orgasmic bliss. Maybe that’s why, he thinks, as Rick closes the door. Maybe that’s why he’s alive at all, alive enough to breathe and bleed and shave and sob and come. Maybe <em>that’s</em> why, because Rick can rip universes in half but Morty will force them together again with spit and scar tissue because he wants one hundred more fucking years of this.</p><p>He smiles, not a baring of the teeth but a happy, idiot grin that makes Rick let out a hiccupy laugh.</p><p>One hundred more years of this, and he’ll take it. He’ll fucking take it.</p><p>Because together, they’re Rick and Morty.</p><p>They take what they want.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>